Depth (8 page)

“Sorry,” Sorenson said.

deCostas reached into his jacket and took out a marble.

“What’s that?” Sorenson asked. He still had a smile on his face, but his eyes were narrowed, the lines at the sides of them like needles.

“A depth-measurement device,” deCostas said.

“I don’t think we agreed to lettin’ you use that.” Sorenson said. He was still smiling, so much so that it looked painful, but his voice had become chillier.

“It’s just part of Mr. deCostas’ research,” Simone said.

“And I’m sure it’s harmless, but we don’t give out information on our building willy-nilly. It could be used for terrorism.”

“Mr. deCostas is here on an academic study. His funding comes from a major European university,” Simone said, angling her body so that Sorenson was focused on her and not deCostas. Sorenson’s smile finally faded, but only for a moment. He shook his head as though he were dealing with a child and sighed. When he spoke, his voice was warmer again.

“And as soon as I have a signed form sayin’ he won’t share any information about the building with anyone but us, I’ll be happy to let him conduct his experiment.”

“Do you have a form?”

Simone’s back was to deCostas, but she hoped he was taking her cue and dropping his marble while she shielded him from Sorenson’s view.

“No I don’t, as you didn’t fully apprise me of what he’d be doin’. I’ll have our lawyers draft one. It should be ready in a few days. Then I’ll be happy to let Mr. deCostas measure the depth.” Sorenson motioned with his arms again, pointing them back to the lobby. deCostas sighed, and Simone watched him tuck the marble back into his pocket. She glared, wondering why he hadn’t dropped it when she’d given him the chance. “I’ll send you the documents as soon as they’re ready,” Sorenson said in the lobby. “Thank you for your patience.”

“Of course,” deCostas said. Simone nodded. Sorenson turned and got back into the elevator. Simone left the building, deCostas following. Outside, she walked a few bridges away before speaking.

“You should have just dropped it,” Simone said.

“What?”

“Your depth measurer. You were right there. You could have dropped it. Said it was an accident.”

“He wouldn’t have liked that. You said to be polite.”

“Yeah, but you could have gotten away with it. He would have insisted you turn it off, or not check the status until you signed his forms, and you could have agreed and gone home and done whatever you wanted.”

“That wouldn’t have been polite. I think that what I did—which was dropping the marble when you distracted him—thank you for that—and then taking another out and making it look like I was putting it away—I thought that was the polite thing to do.”

Simone was silent for a moment. “Is that what you did?” she asked.

“It was.”

“Well,” Simone said, somewhat impressed. “Nicely done.”

“Thank you. Would you like to get something to eat?”

Simone looked him up and down. He grinned at her, one eyebrow cocked.

“Sure,” she said. There was a little caf
é
on the other side of the bridge next to one of the needle buildings where they ordered fish sandwiches and she had coffee and he had tea. They ate outside at a small table, the water a low rumble that stopped just short of making them both vibrate.

“You know this is pearl diving, right?” Simone asked. “I mean, I don’t want to discourage you from paying me, but we’re not going to find anything.”

deCostas was silent for a moment, as if considering what she said. He looked like he was holding his breath. Simone wondered if she’d gone too far and lost the client.

“I know most people think it is a useless quest,” he said finally, his voice even, “but I’ve done the research, and enough people agree with me to fund this expedition.” He gestured firmly, almost violently, slapping his palm down on the table. Simone’s hand involuntarily crept closer to her gun. “If I can find space below the water in New York, then others may ask me to find space below the other sunken cities. We could use what we find to build underwater and try to get life to like it was before the flood.”

“And make your career in the process?” Simone asked, staring at him as she sipped her coffee.

“Well, yes.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “It would make me famous. But I do really believe there must be somewhere the water stops.” He was speaking loudly and jabbed his finger, pointing at her, then realized what he was doing and dropped his hand, but Simone had seen how his eyes had gotten brighter without focusing on anything. She’d seen a touch of rage and maybe something darker.

“I think you’re crazy,” she said. He laughed, and he seemed to shake off whatever it was that had possessed him a moment before. He was charming again, the storm over, the waves calm. He smiled, and Simone relaxed a bit, moving her hand from her pistol, where it had been resting.

“Maybe,” he said. He sipped his tea. “So you have lived in the city your whole life?” Simone nodded. “Have you been to the EU?”

“No. Only left New York once, to visit the Appalachian Islands.”

“The mainland?”

“Yeah, kinda. Eastern islands, connected to the Chicago coast by a giant bridge with a maglev train. Still takes a long time to get there from the mainland, though. So only the really wealthy have homes there. It’s like a vacation spot that’s still part of the mainland. Beaches and mansions and little hotels, but still well policed by the mainland, still safe from ‘corrupt influences.’ My dad took me there when I was little. We stayed at a B&B for a weekend and played on the beach a little. Then we got ticketed for indecency because his bathing suit rode down a little in the back. He didn’t have one of those fancy no-slip kinds. Showed a little crack, and he got charged as much as the vacation cost altogether. That’s mainland life.”

“I’ve never been to the mainland. They say it’s . . . unwelcoming. Make one social mistake and you’re in prison.”

“That’s about right.”

“So why is it different here?”

“Well, we’re technically still the US, I guess, but everything is decentralized here. We have our own government, and while the mainland decency and morality laws apply to us, no one enforces them. Which makes it a great place for foreign businesses to set up shop. Still America, but with none of the pesky rules.”

“No rules?” One corner of his mouth rose up mischievously.

Simone cocked her head. “Our own rules. Truth is, we don’t get many people moving in or out of New York. You’re born a New Yorker, you stay one. Some people move in, but they tend to leave one way or another after they got what they came for or realize they never will.”

“One way or another?”

“Over the water or under it,” Simone said, using her coffee cup to hide her inadvertent frown.

“And what is it they come for?”

“Money,” Simone shrugged. “Power, fame.” She stared at deCostas over his coffee, and he took a long sip. “But New Yorkers don’t like leaving.”

“You say that with pride.”

“Yeah.” Simone drained her coffee and leaned back in her chair. “So what’s the EU like?”

“Nice. Liberal, obviously, by America’s standards.”

“What isn’t?”

“Not too different from here, socially, but we have more . . .”

“Buildings?”

He laughed. “Yes, and we have an older culture. A relaxed one. One that knows it is in its golden years and so tries to enjoy the time it has left, with music and art, sunsets and sex. In the north we have great dykes and walls, like the one you have on the Chicago coast, but they feel natural. And in the south we have pumps and canals—more like here, but different somehow. Like old photos of Venice from before it sank. America is still like the adult who just realized he will not live forever and so is trying to hide himself from danger. It has been this way since before the flood . . . but the flood lengthened it. A very long midlife crisis, decades past its prime, trying to recapture its elusive youth. Europe is past this. We enjoy ourselves and the beauty of the world, even as the waters threaten to cover us.”

“Sunsets and sex?”

“It’s a line from a movie,” deCostas said, pushing his hair back from his face, “but an accurate one. You should visit sometime and see.”

“We have sunsets and sex here.”

“Really? Perhaps I shall find out for myself,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Do these lines work on European women?”

“Some.”

“Now I know you’re lying.” Simone stood, and deCostas squinted up at her. She was enjoying his company, but she wasn’t dumb enough to enjoy it for very long, and it was getting late. She thought about inviting him back with her. She was probably going to fuck him eventually, after all. He was hot and willing, and she didn’t turn down easy sex if she thought the guy wouldn’t try for anything more; and in this case she didn’t think it would interfere with the work she was doing for him. The sun was behind her, and it felt warm on her back. But something distracted her. She was facing the Mission, and the door was opening. Out stepped The Blonde. The legs in the waiting room—no wonder they’d seemed familiar. Simone had tailed them the other night. “I should go,” she said. “Send me some more buildings. I’ll set up some more viewings.”

“Why the rush?”

“Other cases.” He looked over to where she was staring. The Blonde had put on a pair of sunglasses and was walking away.

“Can I come?”

“What?” Simone glanced down at deCostas for a moment, annoyed. “No.”

“I’m not even sure where we are. I need you to show me how to get home. It’s what I’m paying for, isn’t it?” Simone pursed her lips. The Blonde was hurrying out of sight. She grabbed some cash from her wallet and put it down on the table.

“Fine, stay behind me, do exactly what I say. This shouldn’t be dangerous, but . . .” she started walking quickly after The Blonde. Behind her, she heard deCostas scramble up from his chair and follow her.

“Can you tell me what the case is about?” he asked.

“No. And shut up.”

She darted quickly through the crowds. The sun was getting lower, and the sunset fog was starting to rise, giving the city a gauzy orange look. She was impressed by how deCostas managed to weave behind her, but she still had to put her arm up to block him once or twice. She didn’t like where this was going. Bringing deCostas was bad, of course, but she didn’t want to lose the client. She also didn’t want to lose this lead she’d gained by luck. This was why she didn’t like working two cases at once.

The Blonde was heading along the far-western reaches of the city, edging along the bad areas if not quite entering them. It was less populated here, with too many empty buildings and worn-out bridges. Simone didn’t like it. The Blonde walked around a corner and into a large, crumbling building that Simone knew to be abandoned. After sunset, it was a spot to score drugs, but now, with the sun still setting, it would just be an abandoned room with a door to another bridge.

“Stay here,” she whispered to deCostas.

“Why?”

“Just stay here.” Simone walked ahead and into the building. It had been an office once. Three fluorescent lights flickered on the ceiling; the others had burned out. The carpet was torn and moldy, and whatever color it had been was now gray. Discarded newspages stuck to the floor here and there, old and peeling like dry skin. There were a few cubicles scattered around and shoulder-high, white walls lined with trash, but there was a path through them to the other side of the building where another window had been made into a door like the one she’d just come through. Between her and that door stood The Blonde, waiting. She was backlit by the sun, and the little light from the ceiling that shone on her face flickered, as if afraid to rest there. She held her hands in front of her, clutching a small strapless purse, relaxed. Amused maybe.

“Hello,” she said to Simone. “Oh, and you brought a friend.” Simone looked behind her. DeCostas had followed her. Shit. Simone reached for the gun in her boot and pulled it out slowly. “Oh, we don’t need to do that, do we?” The Blonde raised an eyebrow. Simone looked her up and down. The Blonde had a gun, too. Simone could feel it—an instinct for firearms honed over the years. Maybe she was holding it behind her clutch and could shoot her through it. Probably. She’d had time to prepare. The pose with the one hand clasping the clutch, the other hand just behind it, looking like it was clasping the purse, too. It was too staged.

“Why were you meeting with Henry St. Michel the other night?” Simone asked. She kept her gun lowered but walked a few steps closer to The Blonde, trying to block deCostas.

“That’s my business. But I do like having my picture taken. Makes me feel famous.”

“I tried to get your good side.”

The Blonde gave Simone a look like she’d tried to tell a joke and no one had laughed. “They’re all good sides.” She tilted her head, her perfect hair swaying with the motion. An earring sparkled.

“I don’t know why you were taking those photos, but whoever hired you, whatever you think you’re on to, you should stop.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s not whatever you think it is. I’m not a prostitute or a mistress. Do I look like one?” Simone didn’t answer. “Oh, now you’re just being mean.”

“So why were you meeting St. Michel?”

“Like I said, that’s my business.”

“Did you shoot him last night?”

The Blonde raised an eyebrow at Simone.

“No. I didn’t realize he’d been shot.”

“Maybe,” Simone said. “Maybe he shot someone. Maybe he lived.”

The Blonde shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you should leave me alone. I have things to do, and they don’t involve you. I don’t need a fangirl right now.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Maybe.” The Blonde smiled, took out the small gun Simone had known she was holding, and pointed it at Simone. She felt the prickle of adrenaline down her spine, and her brain calculated the way she could handle this if it became a gunfight: Which cubicle was the closest to dive behind? Could The Blonde shoot twice before she could fire back? She felt her heart speed up slightly, and blood rushed to her fingertips, which twitched in anticipation. Then she realized the gun wasn’t aimed at her, it was aimed behind her and a little to her right. Fuck. “But it looks like I have lots of people to threaten today.” She half shrugged, half giggled, her hair and earrings shimmering again. “I like options.” Simone couldn’t tackle deCostas before the bullet hit him, and if she was implicated in the death of a foreign student, she wasn’t sure Caroline could clean that up for her.